


Perfect

by amirmitchell



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/M, and rucas were childhood sweethearts, cheating au where lucas and maya dont meet until college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amirmitchell/pseuds/amirmitchell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riley learns that fairytales aren't real,  Lucas learns what that people change, and Maya learns that cheaters aren't always homewreckers// lucaya w established rucas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Riley

.

The beginning of the end happens on a Tuesday, and you used to love Tuesdays, but you don't think you will anymore. You don't want to think about it being such a thing, but you know it is because Lucas has this spark in his eyes when he gets back from his first day of class that you haven't seen since your sophomore year of high school, all because of  _ a girl.  _

The shift is subtle, it's  _ beyond _ subtle, but it's there, and to you it screams louder than anything you've ever heard. He's just a little less present, a little less affectionate, a little less in love with you- and you just  _ know  _ that this is it. 

You ask him how his day was because that's what you always do, and his grin spreads from ear to ear when he tells you how interesting his art history course really is. He expected it to be boring, but the assignments seem fun and they arrange trips to museums and ‘ _ There's this  _ **_girl_ ** _ , Riley, and she's only a freshman but she's the teaching assistant. Isn't that amazing? We're the only freshmen in the lecture hall during class, so she insisted that I sit with her and she helped me with my notes because I couldn't spell all these artists’ names for the syllabus up on the board that were moving so quickly through slides, and I think I'm going to love this class. I know I only took it to bullshit a fine arts credit, but it's actually really cool.’  _ and he's just so freakin’ excited that you force your biggest smile because you love him, you do, and he's happy. 

“That's great, babe!” you muster out, an ache in your gut that you wish wasn't there because he's so damn happy. 

He tells you he can't wait for class on Thursday.

.

You have been with Lucas since the second grade when he asked you to be his valentine. You accepted, obviously, and you've been his valentine every year since then because he's your boyfriend and you're in line to be the next Cory and Topanga. 

You have a routine between the two of you. Every other Friday is date night, and every Monday night you watch whatever cooking show is airing, and Wednesday is Taco Night, and it's been this way since you were thirteen, and you like it this way. You  _ love _ it this way because you're Riley and Lucas,  _ the  _ Riley and Lucas, the goal of all goals in a relationship and college was supposed to bring you closer because you're at the same school and you're sharing an apartment- which is why it upsets you a little bit when you find out that Lucas has Maya’s number because suddenly he's texting her during Chopped and he's absentmindedly sending her pictures while he's eating his tacos, and he considers staying in on date night because she wants to watch some special on serial killers and he said he would livetext it with her so that they could discuss it during their next class together. 

You start dreading Tuesday and Thursday mornings because he's so eager to get up and get dressed that he's out the door before you can even make him his favorite breakfast. 

He doesn't even kiss you goodbye. 

.

You honestly wonder if he's trying to forget you, or if it's coming naturally. Every other word he says is  _ Maya this  _ or  _ Maya that _ and you don't even think Maya knows you exist. You sure know that she does, though. 

Especially when Lucas drones on and on about her artwork that's in museums that you need to go and see because it's unreal. 

‘ _ It's so beautiful, Riles, you would love it. It's like those little coloring books that you have for anxiety except  _ **_better_ ** _. _ ’

.

He has lunch with her a lot, but he used to have lunch with you so it makes it all really suck. You sit alone for hours only for him to return, reeking of sugar and spice and everything that you're not enough of.

You don't bring up the tension, and he doesn't either, but, that night, you sleep a little further apart on the bed. 

.

You think that maybe you should pick up a new hobby, a distraction from your crumbling home life, but when you go to the craft store you're drowned in art supplies and it makes your veins burn in envy. 

In high school, he would smile about you how he does about her. You don't even know if he realizes what's happening, but you've always been referred to as the dense one of the relationship so you can't see it. You're oh so oblivious Riley, the last to catch on and to ever see the darkness lurking around. 

You wonder if broody artsy girls with the bluest eyes your boyfriend has ever seen are ever seen as oblivious. 

Probably not, but you really wish they were. 

.

He takes you to one of her exhibits for your date night, except it's not even really an exhibit. It's just a museum that has her pieces in with the new age of art, and he tries to explain to you the depth in her canvases, but all you see is squiggly lines and colorful monsters. 

He grabs your hand for a second, but when you try to interlace your fingers, he withdraws and is crossing the aisle to show you yet another masterpiece by Maya. 

.

He kisses her on a Friday, on one of  _ your _ Friday's. 

He is searching for his keys before you even have a chance to get dressed to go out, and you know where he's going. She's waiting for him downstairs, most likely, with a smile brighter than yours and irises as clear as the ocean. 

You know that he kissed her because when he gets home, you greet him how you have for the past seven years, and the taste of peaches stains your tongue when you lick your lips. 

You spend ten minutes trying to scrub it off with your toothbrush until your tastebuds bleed. (You're just happy the fucking peaches are gone.)

.

You used to think of sex as making love, but there has to be love there to make it, doesn't there? Every time you and Lucas as much as make out anymore, you have a voice in the back of your mind reminding you that he's picturing the girl that really has his heart instead of you. 

He wants to brush  _ her _ hair behind  _ her _ ear. 

He wants to kiss  _ her  _ lips instead of yours, treating your intimacy as a chore rather than something exciting. 

He wants to say her name against your skin, and with her taste against your tongue again and her perfume clouding your mind, you almost do, too. 

.

Sometimes when you wake up from your sleep late at night, you think you hear her laugh. In the curve of his spine twisting his body away from you, she lingers unintentionally without mercy. 

You even dream about her; imagining the hue of her eyes when she stares into his, imagining his touch caressing her gently, imagining their love flourishing behind your back as you toss and turn on your mattress. 

He shakes you awake, softly informing you of your bad dream and pecking your forehead after telling you it's over before he rolls back over. He used to hold you every night, and you want to scream to him that your nightmare is only beginning. 

.

The first time that you actually see Maya is when Lucas asks you to grab his phone from your shared nightstand. You don't even try, the image appearing as clear as day after you pick up the device. You absentmindedly click his screen to grin at the photo that you took during your high school graduation (a selfie with a sloppy kiss being pressed to your cheek from the boy that you love) that has been his background from the day it happened- right up until it wasn't. 

It's her now. You know it is by the blush in her cheeks and the beauty in her irises and her smile tugging her bottom lip into her mouth. She's eating an oversized cupcake, dabs of pink frosting scattered on her nose and chin. He snapped it from across a picnic table, swings and slides in the background to reveal to you that they're sitting outside the tiny elementary school that's not too far from your campus. 

He hasn't taken you to a playground since you were sophomores, but with a girl as radiant as that, you'd take her to a million parks. 

You'd take her around the world on your arm, bragging to every soul you meet that she is  _ yours _ and she is everything that you could dream of- But she's not yours. She's his, and you try to remember the last time you were in that place. 

You try so fucking hard. 

.

He looks like he's going to combust when he eagerly rushes into your apartment to tell you the news of a group of his senior friends from that damn art history class getting passes into some museum that you don't care about nine hours away. 

It's apparently a big deal and you don't need to ask if she's going. He wouldn't smile so wide if she wasn't, and so you only grin in return, a small voice telling him how excited you are for his trip. It's his first big college outing and they're even getting a hotel room for the night. It's on another date night that would've been cancelled anyways, so when he turns away to go work on whatever essay he has due, you quickly mark it on the calendar with a quivering lip because you don't need to ask who he's sharing a bed with either. 

.

You're not as dumb as everyone thinks. Yes, you have your ditzy moments, but you know what's happening. You know where he is, who he's with, what he's doing. You  _ know  _ and you can't tell anyone because they wouldn't understand why you're still lying on your side of the bed, awaiting his return. 

He's all that you've ever had. 

He was your first date, your first kiss, your first love, your first relationship, your first time, everything that he could've been first for he was, and you entered college hoping that he would also be your last for all of those- but you're not dumb. You saw it when he met her, and you saw it when he kissed her, and you see it now as he fucks her in some hotel room states away that you were wrong. 

You decide to do your research on her, any type of research despite how it makes your stomach churn and that's how you end up on her Facebook page, scrolling through hundred of pictures of the most beautiful girl you've ever laid eyes on. She's holding awards and painting artwork and strumming guitars and grinning so fucking wide that it feels like rays of sun are shining from the screen of your laptop. She's from New York, a native to where you reside instead of traveling from Texas where you and Lucas were raised, and her birthday is exactly thirty-seven days after yours, and if she wasn't the love of your boyfriend’s life you really think you could be friends. You could be such great friends, maybe even more, because your mom has always told you that you need someone around to help you unfold your hands but you've always had Lucas and he's always protected you so there was never a need for anyone else. He was your best friend, your boyfriend, your soulmate. 

He  _ was, was, was _ . 

.

You want to be like her, what he wants, and so you try to paint. You find the prettiest shade of purple and you buy the largest canvas you can afford and you paint for hours until you realize that you're staring at a lopsided stick figure cat and the ratio of paint on you versus the actual painting is ridiculous enough for you to see that you haven't been painting for hours at all. 

You've been sitting, dreaming of him coming home to you with your name on his lips and your perfume on his clothes and he'll taste like kiwis and flowers and rainbows again. 

He's not going to, but you dream of it because he's going to find your purple cat and it'll settle in that you're never going to be the artist he wants. 

You take a burning shower until your skin aches with blotches of red and you tug out your laptop from under your pillow before you even put on clothes so that you can start searching for a new apartment. You foolishly put this lease in his name, thinking that it would one day be yours, and you're not so sure if you're as smart as you think you are anymore. 

.

You follow him to lunch one day because you just want to know what she's like with him. You want to know how she touches him because you could do that, be that for him, and so you lurk from a distance as he walks to the playground exactly twelve minutes away from your apartment like it’s his second home, creeping behind the mess of blonde sketching at the picnic table with her back to him. His hands fly to cover her face and she lets out a shriek, giggling at his touch. 

Watching her stand up and turn around is almost surreal. Her hair dances in the wind, fluttering like ribbons just like the hem of her skirt. It happens in slow motion; her arms linking around his neck when her picks her up to spin her quickly, their lips connecting within seconds. One of his hands tangle into her hair as he gently sets her down and she smirks into their kiss, her own grasp slithering down to ball a fist into the front of his shirt. 

It’s aggressive and it’s rough and it’s  _ hot _ and you stumble back, a lingering feeling of intrusion clouding your mind at their intimacy. 

(That night, you try to be more like her when you kiss him and you bite his lip right open, beads of blood bubbling on the surface of his frown when he sets you aside in bed and closes himself into the bathroom to wash away your failure.) 

.

When he showers, you sometimes take his phone to watch videos of her. 

There's one that's your favorite; it's in her bed. He's lying down on his back and she's completely on top of him, a few inches lower than his chest as she delicately strokes his skin with brushes covered in colors in set of paints beside their bodies. You can't make out the image, but you can make out the freckles dashes all over her face and the dimple in her cheek when she's satisfied with what she's done and the love in her eyes when she finds his eyes behind the camera. 

“What?” she asks with a scrunch in her nose, an adorable scrunch that takes the air from your lungs. 

“Nothing,” he replies. He's smiling. You know he is from his tone, and you don't know if you're watching for her or to hear his voice so happy again. 

His fingers curl under her chin when she tries to continue her work, her eyes widening as she breaks into a grin. “Oh no, no, no, you'll get me covered in-” but as soon as she smiles, he's tugging her closer and you can make out the smearing of paint across chest and tank top from their lips connecting. She sits up, straddling his lap with a lovesick daze, shaking her head at the paint now bundling the ends of her hair and covering her previously clean clothes. “I was almost done, you asshole.” 

He laughs at her, a pure genuine laugh before she snatches his phone and turns the camera on him. Your eyes wander from his bare chest to his beaming look at her, her thin fingers reaching out and tracing a small heart into the puddle of colors left on his skin after their kiss. 

“You're dead to me, Friar.” 

“Oh,” he snorts sarcastically, “I'm shaking in my boots.” 

You always try to shut it off before he suggests a shower with a dark smirk and his phone is forgotten when he scoops her up from her sheets and her laughter echoes until it's distant enough to disappear. 

.

You don't know when he stopped loving you in the way that you've always loved him, but you pinpointed it somewhere between meeting Maya and their first kiss, and it kills you. 

You want to meet her, and you want to ask her to take care of him. You want to tell her all the little things she'll need to know like he doesn't like mustard and he has to tie his left shoe first and everything that she's going to have engraved into her heart for the rest of her life. You call her, and she answers almost immediately probably not figuring that it was you. She agrees to meet you and gives you the address to a little bakery, some place called Svorski’s that she insists is the best in the world, and so you don't hesitate to say that you'll be there at four sharp. You only ask that she doesn't tell him that you're doing this, and she promises not to. 

And so you prepare. You look at the apartment that you found for when your lease is up, you think of the light in his eyes the day that he met her, you tell Lucas that you'll be out for a little bit, and you walk out the door to meet the girl that your boyfriend is in love with, and you probably are, too, at this point. 

.

The start of your new life happens on a Tuesday with a breakup and the opposite, the boy you love kissing his girlfriend hello and your soft wave bidding them goodbye. You're trying to love Tuesdays again. 


	2. Lucas

.

The beginning of the end happens on a Tuesday, and you've always been impartial to Tuesday's- figuring if they disappeared that Wednesday would just become the new Tuesday. There wouldn't be that much of a difference, and you'd become just as impartial to Wednesday's because that's just how you are, but this Tuesday is special because this is the Tuesday that you meet her and everything changes. 

It's in your art history class, a fine arts credit that you wanted to get out of the way before graduation, and it's mostly seniors in there which is why it's beyond surprising to see a freshman with her feet propped up on your professor’s desk, waving as he announces that she'd be the teaching assistant for the duration of the course. 

She is the only other freshman in the entire hall, and so she claims that it’s purely etiquette when she takes the seat beside yours right in the front, smirking wickedly when she has to assist you in copying the syllabus for the semester. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon and the girl that your mama would've warned you about had you not been with Riley your entire life. Her name is Maya, and it suits her perfectly because it's short (just like her) and it's cute (again, like her) and it sounds so nice escaping your tongue that you don't think you want to ever stop saying it- despite the fact that she has already given you at least four nicknames with the revealing of your Texas roots. 

There's this rush in your veins that you haven't felt in  _ years  _ when she scribbles down her number at the top of your notebook, telling you to text her if needed anymore help and waving you off with a teasing ‘ _ So long, Potato Johnson.’ _

You can't wait for class on Thursday. 

.

You're really glad that you have her number because you love talking to her. You find yourself glued to your phone until you see her next, and you know that it’s probably not healthy, but she's intoxicating. 

There's something in the way that she curls her lips into a cheshire grin when you slide into the seat next to her that you can't stay away from. 

You find out that she's an artist- like an  _ awarded  _ artist. She's one of the top art students in this country, number one on the east coast, and that explains why she's the TA so damn early. You feel almost honored that you get to see her doodling sometimes, the margins of her notebook filling to the brim with intricate designs that belong in museums. 

(With a quick Google search, you learn that some of her pieces are indeed in museums and you wonder if Riley would want to change date night to one of them next week.)

.

Maya finds out about Riley by going through your phone, and you wonder if that's better or worse than you telling her first. 

You're not exactly sure why it matters because it shouldn't matter because you're friends, but when you can feel the air get thicker when the word ‘girlfriend’ escapes your lips, and you can't stop yourself from reaching for her hand. Your grasp is soft and almost apologetic as she interlaces her fingers between yours. 

You don't think you've ever felt your heart beating this fast. 

.

You don't like talking about Riley when you're with Maya because when you're talking about Riley, you're not listening to Maya and that's not cool- but she still asks and asks and asks and so you answer and answer and answer. 

It's excruciating to think about how long you've spent your life as Riley’s other half. You can't think of a time that you haven't been associated with her, and you don't know how you feel about that anymore. 

You don't know how you feel about being  _ RileyandLucas _ anymore. 

(You try not to think about what it be like to be  _ MayaandLucas. _ )

.

The more time you spend with Maya, the less you spend with Riley, and you can't find it in yourself to honestly dislike the distance that grows between you. You've never realized just how exhausting being Riley’s other half could be, but- fuck, is it, and fuck, you're trying so hard to forget how tiring it is. 

When you're with Maya, you don't even think about her. You're lost in blue eyes and blonde hair and her little nose that you like to boop so it scrunches up and she laughs just softly enough that you can hear it.

You want to kiss her, and it's killing you that you haven't. 

.

Sometimes, when Maya’s feeling especially risky, she tumbles into your lap and the way your arms wrap around her seems natural. It's a game that you don't know you can keep up with. 

You find yourself rubbing small circles on the tiny amounts of skin you find contact with, burning for more as the vibrations of her laugh make your heart swell. 

You want to feel guilty because Riley is at home, waiting for you while you sit here with your peers, laughing at them prodding Maya to let them abuse her TA perks, but you don't. 

.

The first time you kiss her, your entire mind stops for what seems like a century. She convinced you into taking the nearest train to the city so that she could draw this little fence that used to be near her apartment. She talks about it for nearly half an hour and raves about how she was dying to see again, so you agree to the trip to see the way her face lights up that you'll be accompanying her. 

(You had to skip date night, but Riley wasn't even dressed when you let it slip out that you had plans, so she expected it. You know that she did by the smile she gave you and the quick peck as she placed your keys in your palm.)

You don't even mean to kiss her. Your body is on autopilot because she's singing and twirling in the streets of New York and the fluorescent lights of the drug store that you're passing right before her building make her smile seem like the fucking sun, rays of warmth striking you to the core when you take that fateful step closer and tug her against you. 

She tastes like peaches and mint and even a little greasy from the pizza that you shared on the beginning of your walk, but she whimpers against your lips and your hands properly find her waist as you frantically back her into the brick wall of the exterior of her apartment. You let your hands explore her spine and her ribcage and farther and farther up her shirt, dancing against her smooth skin in the most satisfying way before she pulls back to catch her breath. 

You find her eyes, and she says your name in the most broken voice you've ever heard because there's a name echoing faintly in the back of both of your minds that you're ignoring.

“I know, Maya.” 

.

“Do you think beauty has a taste?” You ask absentmindedly, your fingers laced with Maya’s as she sleepily blinks at the clouds in the sky. You're lying on a picnic blanket, your half eaten lunches somewhere near your feet when you interrupt Maya’s attempt at a nap. 

You've learned that she can sleep almost everywhere, even to the point of baffling the brightest genius she knows back home- one of her best friends named Farkle. (You promise not to laugh at his name, and when you snicker, she punches your bicep weakly from her dazed state.) 

“Of course not, dumbass,” she yawns, “Beauty is a sense mostly exclusive to sight, maybe sound if you dig deep into the music industry.”

You shake your head and turn to face her. “I think it has a taste.” 

She rolls her eyes, insisting that it doesn't and you're wrong- right up until you softly lean down, just enough to brush her lips with your own and earn a soft smile from your sleeping beauty. With a blush staining her cheeks, she pushes you to your back again. 

“You're such a fucking loser, Friar.” 

.

When Maya falls asleep, her head tucked into the crook of your neck and her weight pressed against you as she curls to your chest, you don't think that it's fair that you're able to hold a girl so ethereal. It's a crime to be trusted with her at her most vulnerable, eyelashes fluttering and hands balled into your shirt. Even when Riley seems to rest against you anymore- granted, it's not often- you find that you're wishing her features everything they're not; limbs shorter, her hair lighter, her eyes as radiant as the sky. 

The small of her back against your palm doesn't fit as perfectly anymore, and you start to wonder how long you can keep this up. 

.

You like taking pictures of her, sometimes videos. She's filling the memory of your phone and your mind and your heart without even trying, but you just want to have everything at your fingertips; her laugh, her smile, the messy curls of her hair flying in the air when she throws her head back and snorts at you for one reason or another. You like to watch the videos back when Riley isn't around to hear her voice, the pictures always on a silent loop in your thoughts. 

Maya calls it annoying to have your camera always pointed on her, but when you shamelessly tell her that it would be a crime not to capture a being so beautiful, she kisses you so softly that you wonder how you got so lucky. 

You're scared that you love her, but you're also beaming because you know that in some twisted way, her kiss is a promise that she's yours and you've never wanted anything more. 

.

With the entire mini class field trip, Maya is packed the night you're informed of it. It's adorable how excited she is and so you play right into her joy, helping any way you can. 

You tell Billy that you'll book the hotel rooms, only four because you're college students, not millionaires, and he doesn't even ask before he marks down that Maya is sharing with you. 

There's such satisfaction with that assumption that you're almost dazed when you make the reservations, your heart beating out of your chest because she's yours and people know that she's yours. 

You don't even remember that she's technically not until you're bursting through your front door and Riley is there waiting for you, just like she always is. 

.

You and Maya sleep together for the first time during that trip, and it's like nothing you've ever experienced before. 

It starts soft, slow languid kisses as she seduces you into throwing away the idea of sleeping on the couch while she takes the single bed. It's tender and that's what you're used to- that's what you've always been used to, and you swear to god a vein bursts when she nips at your lip and aggressively positions herself to straddle you. Her hips grind against yours and you don't know how the fuck you're supposed to last until she even removes any article of clothing from either of you let alone when she bites down on your neck until the mark is dark enough for her liking. 

She smirks wickedly at you when you try to take charge and flip her onto her back, hovering over her and trying to catch your breath. You move on reflex; your touch painfully light, your kiss nowhere near the realm of leaving a trace on her skin, everything meaningful how you were told sex is supposed to be. If you ever tried to go a speed beyond numbingly drawn out, Riley would start to panic, meaning that this is all you know. This is all you thought girls wanted. 

“Um, Casanova?” Maya asks, her fingertips curling under your chin to pull you to her face. “Don't get me wrong, this whole sweet as sugar, leisurely worshipping or whatever is really cute, I swear, but please don't tell me that this is the best you got.”

Your cheeks burn because is it? Do you have anything better? Is there anything worse than the freshly kicked puppy look she's giving you right now? 

“Oh, Huckleberry,” she coos, a shade in her eyes that you never knew you craved so deeply until now. “There's so much more than that 50s vanilla act.” She props herself up, pushing you by your chest to resume your earlier position. “I promise that we can do the sappy missionary standard after we just get a quick exciting round, scouts honor.” She salutes you, your entire mind flustered because you've never been stopped before. You've never realized that there are actually girls out there that like an increasing pace, a stronger grip. You've had sex the same way since you took Riley’s virginity your senior year. 

Maya pulls you from your thoughts, quickly tugging her shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor before properly settling on your lap. “I'm gonna show you something, okay? It's fun, I promise.” You muster up a nod, your eyes locked on her bare torso. You didn't realize just how provocative her pajama choice of only a shirt and underwear was until this exact second, and you're kind of short circuiting- but you don't think she expects any different from the chuckle she gives you. Maya takes your left hand, settling it on her outer thigh, her ass only an inch or two from your grip, and uses her fingers to tangle your other hand into blonde waves. “You tug a little bit, okay, babe?” she instructs, and you absentmindedly nod as you melt from under her because out of all her nicknames, she'd never once used that one and it's immediately your favorite sound spilling from her lips. 

Before you can even catch up, her lips are against yours again and she's pressing harder into you, rolling her hips at a quicker pace. It's  _ heavenly,  _ and you want to tell her that but you tug on her hair by accident when your hands form into fists against her body. 

A tiny moan escapes her throat, and that sound is even better than hearing ‘ _ babe _ ’ so you tug again immediately, a little rougher to test her reaction before letting your free hand harshly pull her forward by her waist. You're working entirely off impulse, moving your hips against hers before she slips her touch beneath the waistband of your shorts and your teeth find her collarbone- and when she heavily moans, “ _ Fuck, Lucas _ ,” you swear you see stars. 

.

You spend more time in Maya’s apartment than you do in your own anymore, and you want to feel bad but when she's stirring next to you, your shirt covering her tiny body while she softly snores, there's no way you're going to feel anything but the swelling of your heart. 

You love her. 

You love her so fucking much, and you stop yourself from telling her that when your fingertips circle her bare thigh and she hums happily. She blinks her eyes away and then catches sight of you, a smile arising as natural as the sun does while you smooth down her messy hair. 

“Did you have a nice nap?” you whisper, planting kisses all over her face until she giggles and pecks your lips in greeting. 

“I did,” she shares, resting her head on your chest and cuddling her body against you. 

“What did you dream about?” you ask, your touch trailing up her thigh and under the hem of your shirt. 

“Having a Ranger Rick in my life that lets me sleep for twenty more minutes.” 

Your hand travels on because she doesn't stop you, and when it reaches her chest enough for her to sit up and peel your clothing from her skin, you can only stare because you have the most beautiful girl in existence in your grasp and you never want to let her go. 

.

Riley takes out a chunk of your lip when she tries to kiss you one night, and it makes your heart sink to the pit of your gut because you know what she's doing- of course, you do. 

She's trying so fucking hard and you're ripping apart her fairytale at the seams. 

(Somehow that only reassures you that you were never meant to be her prince.) 

.

You and Riley start sleeping in different rooms, you occupying the guest bed more often than not. You've started keeping some of your clothes in there, too. 

It's a silent agreement. There's only so many syllables that can fill the air before “it’s over” and so you don't say any at all in fear that those three will be the next thing to escape. 

.

“My dad cheated on my mom,” Maya mutters from your chest one night, her voice so small that you can barely hear it at all. “I was seven, and he met this woman- absolutely beautiful, so very funny, the dream- at a conference in California. He used to travel for work, and he would leave for business trips every other month, but when he got back from that one… everything changed, Lucas.” 

You can hear her voice crack, not daring to look up at you as tears form in her eyes. 

“Within a month, they'd fallen in love. God, she made him so happy, so much better. And my parents started sleeping in separate rooms. My mother started to drink more, my father would leave every other weekend for more  _ business trips _ . By the time I was eight, he was gone and my mom and I were all alone.” 

“Maya…” you start, but she cuts you off when her head rises off your chest. 

“He was happier with her, and he loved her so much, and so my mom told me that it was okay- that we would be okay. That woman gave him a happiness that we couldn't anymore, and that wasn't my fault or hers and so we would be alright.” A few tears slip down her cheeks and onto the fabric of your shirt. “They had a baby not even a year later. And when that baby turned three, they got married so that she could be the flower girl. We weren't invited, and so we didn't go, and instead we decided that we would go to my favorite bakery in the world- Svorski’s. We ordered all the pastries in the window, and we sat in my favorite corner booth, and we were okay because he was happy and we were happy, and when you love someone, you want them to be happy. 

And there was a man there, photographing the bakery for an article he was writing about the city. He saw us and he ran right over, asking our permission to take a few candids of us eating and laughing and just enjoying each other, and we said yes, and, afterwards, we invited him to sit with us. And on the day of my dad’s wedding, my mom met my stepdad and we were all happy, the happiest we’ve ever been, and we were glad for it because when you love someone, that's what matters.” 

She wears a bittersweet smile when she mentions the bakery, her parents, her step dad, and there's a way that she says ‘ _ love’ _ that makes your head spin. 

“Lucas…” She inhales sharply, her eyes locking with yours with a look so pure that your lungs constrict. “I love you. And I want you to be happy. And if you're happier without me, that's okay, and I needed you to know that.” 

You hardly register what she says after she tells you that she loves you, and as soon as her mouth shuts, you kiss her. It's sloppy and tastes like salty tears and beating hearts, and you only pull back to say against her skin that you love her, too. 

God, you love her so fucking much. 

.

The start of your new life happens on a Tuesday with a breakup and the opposite, your girlfriend kissing you hello and your ex waving you goodbye. You don't think you're going to be so impartial to them anymore.


	3. Maya

.

The end of the beginning happens on a Tuesday, and you don't think that you could love Tuesday's any more. You're finally out of high school and you're the teaching assistant of one of the most awarded art history professors in the country- and, as a freshman, that's a big deal. Sure, your luck hasn't always been fantastic, but you have a good feeling about this. It’s the end of being treated like a high school  _ child _ , and the beginning of your very sophisticated life as Maya Penelope Hart, _ the adult artist.  _

There's even a cute boy in your first lecture that you're sitting in on, and you indulge yourself by sitting beside him. 

‘ _ Us freshman have to stick together, no?’ _

His name is Lucas and it rolls off your tongue deliciously when you tap on his shoulder, scribbling down the notes he's struggling to keep up with. You know them well enough considering that you helped create them, so you finish them off for the poor boy. He's obviously only in the course to get ahead of credits, and you figure there's no harm in slipping him a little assistance. 

You learn that he's from Texas, making sure to take every opportunity to tease him about it. He's Potato Johnson to at least half of your mess of upperclassmen, but he smiles in a way that you know he's not upset and so you add in Huckleberry for good measure. 

You wonder if there will be a boy like that in any other lectures that you'll sit in, and, if not, how long Thursday will take to get here. 

.

There aren't any other boys like Lucas, and so you make it a point to smile even wider at him. There's warmth in his grin when you bring up the Zodiac Killer documentary that you guys watched together on Saturday. (He was busy when it aired, so you recorded it.) 

You find yourself drawing his eyes a lot. You try not to when he's glancing over your shoulder in class, but when you make it to calculus, it's free reign.

.

He has a girlfriend, and her name is Riley, but when he says that, his smile doesn't meet his eyes and he shifts uncomfortably. You honestly assumed that she was his sister at first, but he politely corrected you and told you about how they'd been dating for as long as anyone could remember.

He looks at you almost somberly when you repeat the word to him, a bitter taste on your tongue. 

It's a silent apology when his hand finds yours, and you interlock your fingers with a squeeze to solidify whatever he felt was going to fall apart.

.

You ask about his girlfriend a lot, despite how much jealously sinks to the pit of your stomach at the thought of her because you're his  _ friend  _ and  _ friends _ ask about each other’s girlfriends and so you do. 

You don't know who has the more pained expression when she's brought up, you or Potato Johnson. 

“Oh, Riley? Well, she's… she's something. We've been dating since practically elementary school,” he nervously laughs, shifting uncomfortably on the bench outside the hall for your class that you both sit at. “For as long as I can remember, we've been  _ RileyandLucas _ . I can't even think of a point in my life where we weren't  _ RileyandLucas.  _ I don't know what it's like to be  _ Riley  _ **_and_ ** _ Lucas.  _ Y’know?” 

You tell him that you don't because you've always been  _ Maya  _ not  _ Mayaandinsertboyhere _ . You keep quiet about how you don't think  _ MayaandLucas  _ sounds too bad. 

.

You hate how natural it feels to touch him. Your fingertips brush and his grip finds the small of your back in a crowd and you just want to be closer; closer to the golden flecks in his eyes, closer to the curve of his lips, closer to his chest pressed against yours when you hug. 

You hate it so much that you can barely stand to even look at him anymore except that's a lie because all you do is look at him, think about him. 

When you say goodbye, he holds you longer than he probably should and you both know it- but you don't say anything. You just tighten your arms around his neck and bury your face into his neck on the tips of your toes because the second you say a word, the world will start spinning again and neither one of you want that. 

.

When there aren't any seats, you will plop yourself into his lap, the chill of his laugh running down your spin as he locks his hands around you. A smile brushes his lips and you want to know why it doesn't feel wrong. It should, shouldn't it? It’s such dangerous territory that you beg any power above to forgive you for crossing into it . 

But then he squeezes your hips to catch your attention and you ease back against him, rolling your eyes at his classmates asking you to slip them copies of essays from previous years that your professor keeps as references when grading.

.

There's a tiny fence in an alley two blocks down from your apartment building that is filled with scattered padlocks, a twisted take on the love locks bridge for those who are stuck in your tiny little neighborhood that need a little hope. On the back of each padlock, there's tape with a wish written on, and you can remember scrawling ‘ _ I wish to make it out of here _ ’ when you were only eight and latching it to the very bottom right of the tangled metal. 

After a week of dreaming about it, you decide that you've had enough and you convince Sundance to accompany you on your conquest because you're an eighteen year old girl that would be wandering the streets of a questionable neighborhood late at night- your pride is strong but you're not a total idiot. He agrees, of course, and so that's how you find yourself leading him past the Bunny Mart across from where your old bedroom used to be. 

You're singing and you're spinning and you're so happy because you miss it here and it's been such a great night; telling stories and sharing pizza and laughing so hard that you almost snort out your sodas. 

As much as being on your own is great, you've always been one for solidarity. Familiar is better and you know almost every building in a two mile radius which is amazing because at your campus, you only really can make it to the nearest McDonald's and your classes without getting lost. You feel safe and warm and when your eyes catch Lucas’s, your heart stops because it washes over you just how  _ at home  _ you feel. 

He's kissing you before it can even resume beating and your fingers are threading into his hair like he will slip away if you don't hold him close. You can feel your body being pressed against the cool brick of your complex, a tiny gasp escaping you when his hands start to roam. Your skin is on fire and you wonder if he can feel your lungs bursting when his fingertips brush against your ribs. 

You don't want to pull away because you know what will happen when you do; the world will keep turning. The realization of your actions will creep into your conscience and you'll be left panting, pressed against him while you try to find the words to express why that shouldn't have happened, why it can't ever happen again.

You find that you can't get any of that out when you actually to break the kiss to catch your breath. You stare up helplessly, his name spilling from out before you can stop it.

“Lucas.” 

He tells you that he knows, his forehead bumping yours to rest against it. He exhales deeply and his eyes close before he pulls you closer to him. 

“ _ I know, Maya. _ ”

.

Once that door opens, it never closes. It drifts aimlessly in the wind, creaking every so often as a reminder of the girl waiting for him at home as you steal kisses on a swing set from the boy that she loves. 

You wanted to get off campus for lunch, but Ranger Rick has been on this kick of trying to get you to stop arriving to your classes ten minutes late, so the farthest he lets you go is the elementary school about ten minutes away. 

You try to tell him that you don't need a chaperone and that he needs to stop being such a huckleberry, but before you can tease him, he's kissing you sweetly and asking if you want to race to the slides. 

(He lets you win, and then he kisses you again.) 

.

You like to dream that you and Lucas have a chance sometimes. 

You know that you don't. He has a girlfriend at home, a beautiful girlfriend, and you're ashamed that you've become this homewrecking monster that you used to despise the thought of, but the guilt doesn't settle in until you alone in your bed at night and he is in his with her, texting you that he misses you while she probably kisses him goodnight. It doesn't feel wrong until you realize that it is, and you try to ration how unhappy he truly is with her, but she's a good girl. 

She's an honest, pretty girl with a heart of gold and everything you wish you could have in the palm of her hands. You absentmindedly turn in your mattress as you wish for better features; longer limbs, darker hair, eyes as warm as a freshly baked cookie. 

But you don't, and so you dream. Oh boy, do you dream. 

.

You're in love- Jesus fucking Christ, you're so in love that it sickens you. 

You wonder if you'd be lucky enough to die from the guilt of how disgustingly obsessed you are with some boy in a class that you help teach but you're not because there isn't enough guilt when it feels so right and he's just as obsessed with you and Lucas Friar isn't just some boy in that fucking class.  

You can remember rolling your eyes at the bullshit quotes about soulmates that you used to skip right through, but suddenly it's like they all were translated from a language that doesn't exist as soon as his touch scarred your skin, and you're in love. 

You're so fucking in love. 

.

You have a bucket list of the top twenty art museums in this country that you want to visit, and so when Billy tells your entire lunch bunch that he has eight all access passes to the Detroit Institute of Art (#13) for a weekend of research for your course, it takes you all of three seconds to jump into his lap and hug him into an oblivion. 

He claims it's purely coincidence to have eight tickets for art majors to abuse for a trip instead of seven, only one person in your group not earning a degree in a creative subject, but you know that he snuck it in so that Lucas could come, too, and you've never been so grateful.

When you tell Huckleberry about it, he lets out a gasped, “Number thirteen?” and a shiteating grin graces his face when you smack his arm for mocking you. 

.

Sometimes it irritates you just how much of a gentleman Ranger Rick truly is. 

You end up sharing a hotel room, something you think could be fun considering it'd be you, him, a locked door, a comfy bed- but no. His body twists away from yours when you slip into an oversized shirt to sleep in and he won't even glance your way until you're under the covers. Then, on top of refused to acknowledge you changing, he drops the line about him taking the sofa in the corner by the window instead of sharing the mattress with you. 

“Hopalong, that's ridiculous. Not only are you half a foot too long for that damn thing, but there's no logical reason that you can't sleep next to me.”

But he still protests. He claims it's the proper thing to do and his mama would castrate him if she knew that he was not taking the couch. 

“Sundance,” you deadpan, a blank expression falling to your face, “Stop being an idiot and come get in the fucking bed.” 

“No can do, Shortstack, I'll just be grabbing a pillow and I'll be on my way,” he grins cheekily at your irritation, leaning over you to snatch up what he needs before you capture his lips and let out a soft noise against him. 

You figure that he must be nervous- well, he's obviously nervous. Yeah, you've made out, and yeah you've done various other things, but you haven't had sex and there’s a lingering sword swinging over your head with the fact that once you do, there's no going back. But you want this and you know that he wants it, too, and so you kiss him. It's sweet and slow and his arms hardly even graze your waist from how light his touch is. He sends chills down your spine when he gives you a soft groan when you nip at his lip, and when you finally get him sitting in the bed, you swing into his lap because this is it. This is the night where no one else exists, where you are completely lost in each other- where he is  _ yours _ and no one can change that.

Not tonight, at least. 

.

You tell Missy about him because you need help, and there's a bittersweet look in her eyes when she silently stares because you both know what you should do and you both know that you're not going to do it. 

“Hey, Buttercup?” she asks softly, her arm swinging around your shoulders as you tuck your under her chin. 

“Yeah, Princess?” 

“Do you remember when we were nine and Farkle stuck his leg in front of us, telling us that one of us would one day be the lucky Mrs. Farkle Minkus and get all access up until his knee?” 

You let out a chuckle, the image of him tugging his jeans up on top of your reading rug in the third grade flashing in your mind. “Yeah, and then we told him that we just don't think either of us are quite lucky enough for that...” 

“Then Izzy showed up the next year and he said that we would just have to marry each other because he was soon to be the lucky Mr. Isadora Smackle,” she finishes for you, your fingers lacing together as you sadly sigh. 

“Oh, Bradford, what have I gotten myself into this time?” 

She squeezes your palm, pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“Nothing that we won't make it out of okay, Hart.” 

You smile gratefully, your eyes falling shut in the safety of your best friend. “I love you, Dipshit.” 

“I love you more, Fuckface.”

You wish you would've just married Missy in the first place. 

.

Lucas tells you the story of Riley’s parents- of Cory and Topanga, the couple that defined love in the lanky brunette’s eyes. He tells you of Riley’s wonderful fairytale that maps her life; her prince, her castle, the queen and king ruling the planet until she and her true love are crowned and the cycle repeats. He tells you that she loves him because he's supposed to be his prince. 

You brush your hand along his cheek because you love him for not being a prince. You love him because you love his flaws as much as you love his perfections. You love his temper and how he sometimes fails to see the big picture and how he can't pronounce at least of half of your favorite artists. 

He lets out that he doesn't think he's ever been the prince for her, and you nod because you know. He's no prince, but she is a princess, and he doesn't know how long it'll take her to figure that out. 

.

When you tell your mom about him, you cry. You do nothing but cry. 

You cry for him, you cry for yourself, you cry for Riley, you cry for everyone and everything because you fucking love him and he loves you and you didn't mean for this to go so far- you didn't mean for it to go anywhere at all. 

She holds you close and whispers into your ear that it's going to be okay. That you can't control where you find your happiness, and that it's going to work out. You find who you're meant to be with. 

“Your father found his new wife while we were together,” she reminds you, her smile sincere. “He found a happiness that I couldn't give him, and now he has a loving wife and two beautiful girls that he adores and takes care of. And if he hadn't found her, then I wouldn't have found Shawn, and I wouldn't have had help raising you all those years.” 

You sob harder because it's still not okay that you're doing this behind your back and you're a homewrecker, a filthy homewrecker. 

“Maya,” she strokes your hair, her free hand rubbing your back. “Please, just remember that I was in her place. Sometimes, your high school sweethearts are meant to stay that. It's not fair and it's not okay, but neither is life. Just… Babygirl, she knows more than you guys are giving her credit for. She knows in the end what's important and that when you love someone, you want them to have happiness. The sad truth of love is that sometimes it won't be from you, and if she's anything like what you've described her as to me, she knows. People change, Maya. They grow in different ways, and she's probably seen a difference in him since the day that you two met.” 

.

Riley is even more beautiful in person than she is in pictures. You have lunch with her at Svorski's and when you walk in, ten minutes late thanks to the subway, you immediately spot her shining near the window, the sun setting just enough that she's beginning to turn gold.

It's awkward at first, and she’s the first to speak. 

“I needed to meet you,” she confesses, “I really did. I found an apartment for myself, and before anything happened, I needed to meet the girl that he loves.” You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, guilt starting to lurk as she continues, “God, the way he talks about you is surreal, and our entire place smells so much like you that it suffocates me in the sweetest way, and when he would tell me that he loves me, it wouldn't reach his eyes because it wasn't in the same way that I love him.” 

You don't really know what to say, your mouth falling open at everything she comes out with before even saying hello. “I… I'm so sorry,” you try. Honestly, what else can you say? 

Her hand finds yours over the table and there's a warmth in her eyes when she tells you not apologize. “You make him happy, Maya-” 

“And when you love someone, you only want them to be happy,” you finish for her, a chuckle escaping the both of you as tears well in your eyes. 

“Exactly. I just needed to make sure that you would take care of him. I'm not going to be gone forever, but I'm gonna need some time, just to sort of settle with everything, and I couldn't do it without meeting you so I'm sorry if this is weird.” Her face scrunches a little, and it is, you admit it, but you can only smile because in some twisted way, you're getting her blessing to be with the boy that you love more than there are stars in the sky, and you know deep inside that everything is going to be okay. 

And with your hands connected over the table near the window at your favorite bakery, you hope that maybe you will be friends at some point, after she's healed, after you've grown, and that you'll love him as much as you can tell she does. 

(You will and you do, you just know it.) 

.

The start of your new life happens on a Tuesday with a breakup and the opposite, your boyfriend kissing you hello and Riley softly waving goodbye. 

You couldn't love Tuesdays more. 

**Author's Note:**

> based on perfect by selena gomez bc thats my jam i heard it once and wrote all of this


End file.
